Holiday Grind

no-nonsense short. His jawline looked as square as ever, his chin dependably strong. Like most men in their forties, he had crow’s feet and frown lines etched into his face, badges of surviving life’s tragedies, fighting its battles. His blue eyes were as sharp as ever, too, and clearer than a glacial lake.

On the street, Quinn’s eyes were stone-cold cop, unwilling to give away an iota of intention. For a long time, his true feelings were my own personal guessing game—at times a frustrating enterprise. (Is the man only mildly irritated? I’d wonder. Or pissed enough to start shooting up the room? Is he turned on by my risqué references to his handcuffs? Or am I just making an ass of myself?)

That kind of bewilderment was rare now. When we were alone together, Mike’s chilly cop curtain was swept aside. Whatever he was thinking or feeling, he usually showed me. (Usually being a necessary qualifier—Quinn was, after all, still a man.)

“You should have told me about Alf, Clare.”

“You heard what happened?”

“Not until I was ending my tour.” He gently brushed stray locks of hair from my cheek. “Sully and I picked up the radio chatter about Santa being shot near the Sixth, and I asked about the DOA. Langley told me it was you who found him.”

I nodded. “He was shot point-blank. I found him in an alley.”

Mike shook his head. “I got your voice mail. You didn’t say a word, Clare. Not one word in your message was about why you were calling.” His voice carried a bit of annoyance, but his eyes weren’t flashing with anything close to rebuke. Instead, his brows were drawn together with concern.

“You were on duty. I didn’t want to worry you—”

“Well, I sure as hell wish you had. I called you back the second I played your message. Why didn’t you pick up?”

“I should have... I was just so drained by then. I couldn’t handle telling the whole story one more time—not over the phone. By then I’d already given the account to so many people: Langley, the two detectives, Matt—”

“Matt?” Quinn stiffened. “Allegro was there?”

I nodded. “He showed up at the Blend for my tasting party. So I knew he was nearby, and when I called, he picked up right away.”

Quinn’s jaw worked. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“Stop apologizing. You were on duty. I knew if you weren’t answering your cell, you were probably in the middle of a crime scene of your own—”

“I was.”

I could tell from his tone it didn’t go well. “What happened?”

“Our suspect was high when my guys got there with the warrant. He barricaded himself in his bedroom with his teenage girlfriend as a hostage, claimed he was holding her at gunpoint.”

“Oh, no.”

“Your call came about the same minute I realized I had a fubar on my hands.”

“What happened?”

“We got a sniper in place on the roof across the street. Had a clean shot to take him out, too, right through the open window blinds, but I didn’t think he’d really hurt the girl.”

“Why not? He had a gun on her, right?”

“No. He had a gun in the room, but not pointed at her, and he kept talking with me, so I kept working on him—explained we wanted information, that we’d plea down the charges if he gave up the associates in his ring.”

“This was the hospital worker you told me about?”

Quinn nodded. “Been supplying OxyContin to dealers around Queens College, Hunter, NYU.”

“So you didn’t have to shoot him?”

“We would have, if he’d forced our hand. But, like I said, he wasn’t pointing the weapon at the girl, and he continued talking with me until I persuaded him to surrender. Then we got all the evidence we needed out of the apartment, took the girlfriend to her mother’s unharmed.”

I smiled for a second, proud as anything, then poked his chest. “See, now I’m glad I didn’t leave a hysterical message. Although I almost did...”

“Almost?”

“I started ranting as soon as I heard your voice—then I realized it was your prerecorded voice and I pulled myself together.”

“You were hysterical?” Quinn’s grim expression lightened a fraction.

“Listen, Lieutenant, I’m not a professional. I admit it, okay? But I have seen a dead body or two, as you well know.”

Quinn’s crow’s feet crinkled in amusement, no doubt with a memory of one of the criminal cases I’d helped the NYPD clear. Not that anyone with a badge and a gun would acknowledge me as anything more than a “helpful witness,” excepting, of course, the cop sitting on my bed.

“So what did you tell the detectives?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter. They didn’t deem it ‘important’ to the case.”

“Who didn’t? Who’s the lead detective?”

“A sergeant named Franco. Emmanuel Franco.”

“The General.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t ask me how he got the nickname. He’s new at the Sixth, although not with the PD. He’s had a lot of success running street crime task forces in the boroughs. In case you haven’t heard, street crimes haven’t exactly been on the decline since the economy tanked.”

“Yes, someone’s mentioned that to me once or twice already.”

“So what do you think, Detective Cosi?” Quinn asked. “You think Alf’s death was more than a mugging?”

“I think there are a lot of unanswered questions about why he was on that particular street during a snowstorm and what exactly he was doing in that building’s courtyard.”

Quinn studied me a moment—read me, actually. “So you and Franco locked horns.”

“For about a minute, yes,” I admitted. “He was condescending and I was angry. In the end, the man did show an interest in my theory, but only if I was willing to discuss it with him off duty, over coffee and doughnuts. I’m pretty sure he was hitting on me.”

“Is that so?” Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “And?”

“And what?”

“And did you tell him you’re my girl?”

I laughed. “It wasn’t that big a pass. He was just starting to suggest we ‘make nice’ when Matt showed. Ten seconds later Matt was touching my chest in front of everyone, so Franco jumped to the conclusion that Matt and I—”

“Whoa, back up! Allegro did what to your chest?”

Oh, God. “It’s not what you think. See, I got caught in the middle of this police chase. The perp ran me down and Matt was worried I’d broken a rib—I hadn’t, but he wanted to check me out. I mean check my chest out. I mean my ribs—and Franco saw the whole thing and got the wrong impression—”

“I’m getting the wrong impression. And I’m completely lost. Start at the beginning.”

I did. I ran down the entire evening, the crime scene, the footprints in the snow. “Sergeant Franco said, ‘Two and two is four.’ But the man must be using new math because there’s definitely more to the story. Alf went to that deserted street for a reason, and I believe he was climbing the fire escape in the courtyard for a reason, too.”

“And you think those reasons will add up to why he was killed?”

“I realize there’s plenty of circumstantial evidence to support Franco’s version of the events, but I think